The Anticlimactic End to Your Life

Your chest burns with adrenaline. Your lungs seem to have disappeared. A barrel emerging from your hand is aimed at your "doppelganger". You could only imagine that he is having the same experience. Of course, you aren't actually thinking. You couldn't even if you wanted to. Thousands of years of evolution has hijacked your nervous system. Your amygdala is in the pilot's seat now. Just as your ancestors were, you are at the whim of invisible hands, programmed to perform a single action. Bite, punch, stab. The action changes, but the command stays.

You have been instructed to pull a trigger. Just curl one digit. Everything is already in place. It's almost too easy.

As you pull, the hammer releases and...

Nothing.

Explosion? No. Threat eliminated? Apparently not. Oblivion? All too close.

The gun jams. "The gun", you think. Yes. Not barrel. There is more to the barrel than what you see. In fact you are attached to it.

What is this? Thoughts? Oh no, this isn't good. The invisible hands have dropped you in the middle of a gunfight. The amygdala has abandoned the pilot's seat, but it still feels the need to keep its foot on the pedal.

Planes have pedals?

The analogy isn't important, you fool. Evolution hasn't accounted for mechanical error and now YOU have to solve it.

*BANG*

Your doppelganger has shot at you. Fortunately, he's a fucking moron and misses.

Fucking moron? That's an awful thing to say.

He's trying to kill you. Save it for the ants. Un-jam the gun.

You clear the chamber. The round flies somewhere unimportant. You take aim. Survival is your destiny. Just like your ancestors. They didn't die and neither will you. There is no alternative. Your descendants have been saved. You pull the trigger...

*Click*

It jams again. Your doppelganger is about to pull off another shot. His eyes are piercing.

Enough. Usually, this is automatic, but you need to switch from fight to flight. There are some automobiles parked on the road. Pick the SUV. The windows are larger, but the taller doors will keep your position ambiguous.

The driver side door provides excellent cover. The front tire obscures your feet. No ankle shots for you. Now for the offensive.

I’ll pretend to move.

Yes. very good. Feign moving to the back tire. Remember, your doppelganger is stupid. He won’t anticipat–

*BANG BANG*

A barrage of lead whizzes pass you. The doors should be thick enough to stop the bullets. Actually, you think he has a car like this. He’s probably more familiar with the door’s stopping power.

Did he spend a weekend shooting his own car? Why woul–

He’s coming around the hood. His panicked face meets your panicked face. You force yourself to bluff your pistol. It works and he instinctively retreats.

Flight, Flight, dammit! You somehow clear 30 yards in a few seconds. You wonder if he’d be impressed.

Through frantically fiddling, the source of your guns malfunction has been located. Something with the slide. You confidently emerge, ready to actually shoot.

With eyes locked, you both aim your pistols. He takes aim. His eyes seem to widen. He quickly cocks his pistol a few times.

You laugh.

His fucking gun jams.

You finally fire. At nearly the same time, he grasps his leg and falls. 

The doppelganger continues to dopple gang. Absolute bastard. He always makes things so difficult. Writhing like a dying bug. He could’ve been a man about it. Always guilt-tripping.

You get closer. Closer to oblivion. Not your oblivion. His. He’s covering his face. Maybe it’s an instinctual thing. Like a kid hiding under the covers. You're still here.

“Sorry. I hope you unders–”

*BANG*

Immediately, your legs are limp. Your arms are limp. Everything below your neck is useless.

What!? You’ve been shot. In the neck most likely.

How!? It doesn’t really matter.

Why!? Don’t make this hard. Your “doppelganger” doesn't seem to be like you at all.

Your doppelganger–

No,

“He” takes aim. At that moment. You see everything and understand nothing. Your ancestors look away and your descendants are spared your hands.

At least that’s what you think. 

You switch off.

Word count: 695

Prompts: Showdown, Legacy

Thank you for reading.